Her grip tightens just a fraction before she lets go. “I’ll be back this evening, then.”
“Actually,” I say, adjusting the bag in my hand, “it’d be better if you came by tomorrow instead.”
Her expression shifts, tightening. “Look, she’s one of my best friends,” she says, each word clipped. “And you—and whoever else is upstairs—better not hurt her.”
“Why would you automatically assume that we were going to hurt her?”
She brushes her curly hair back. “Because everyone in town knows you, Beau. You have a reputation.”
Something in me bristles at that. I straighten up, my voice going harder. “You don’t fucking know me.”
The edge in my tone lands—I can see it in the way her spine stiffens, the faint widening of her eyes. I’m still riding the last of the heat haze, that primal edge that makes my voice drop low and sharp without me trying.
She feels it too, as evidenced by her backing down a step, the defensiveness in her shoulders softening into something more cautious.
“I just… worry,” she says finally.
I let out a slow breath. “I won’t do anything to hurt her.” And I mean it—not just because she’s in heat and vulnerable, but because it’s Wren.
Norah studies my face for a moment, then nods. “Just tell her I came by… and I’ll keep Pancake safe for her.”
I nod back. And then, because I know she needs something in return, I add, “How about you bring a bouquet in the evening? I’ll tell you how she’s doing then.”
Her features settle at that, the tension easing out of her mouth. “Alright.”
She turns toward the door, and I watch her go, closing it behind her and flipping the lock. The house is quiet again, save for the faint thrum of movement from upstairs. I grab a pitcher, fill it with cold water from the tap, and start back up.
Closer to the bedroom, the scent in the air thickens again—hers, mingled with ours, heavy and warm and addictive. By the time I push the door open, I can see the three of them together, the blankets half-off the bed, her bare skin catching the afternoon light as they press into her from either side.
Yeah. Tomorrow’s a better idea.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wren
I wake in a slow,syrupy haze. My brain feels about five seconds behind my body, and my body… God, my body hurts.
Not just sore—every muscle feels stretched, wrung out, used in ways that have left a deep ache in my bones. My thighs protest when I shift even slightly. My clit throbs like a bruise, oversensitized from hours of attention.
I’m overheating. Arms and legs loop over me, the weight of them heavy enough to pin me in place. My cheek is pressed against a broad chest that rises and falls in slow, steady breaths.
Behind me, there’s more heat—a body curled against my back, a palm resting low on my hip. Another set of legs tangles with mine.
For a second, I don’t know where one person ends and the next begins.
The air still smells like them—thick and layered, the memory of heat curling at the edges—but there’s a softness to it now, muted compared to the dizzying spike it had before. I breathe it in, and even though part of me is mortified, another part wants to burrow closer and never leave.
When I finally open my eyes, the room is dim, sunlight slipping through the edges of the curtains. In the corner, aglass vase catches the light. Flowers—pale roses, eucalyptus, something soft and purple—sit fresh in water.
I blink at them, my brain struggling to connect dots. “Where did those come from?” My voice is scratchy, like I haven’t spoken in days.
Beau stirs beside me, his hand sliding lazily up my spine. “Norah dropped them off yesterday.”
Yesterday. The word makes my stomach dip.
“She… came here?”
“Yeah. Brought Pancake, too. Cat’s downstairs somewhere,” Beau says, his voice low and easy, like he doesn’t think this is anything to panic about.
